


March 9, 2020

by canonismybitch



Series: Montse's Vent Fics (aka the anger dump because this world is a mess) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Feminicide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guys I'm serious this is very dark and it doesn't get better, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Muder of a child, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23089234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonismybitch/pseuds/canonismybitch
Summary: March 9, 2020There were no women walking on the streets, because they were all dead.My form of protesting violence against women in my country.
Series: Montse's Vent Fics (aka the anger dump because this world is a mess) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789552
Comments: 22
Kudos: 58





	March 9, 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Story time before you begin reading this work: I'm mexican. In my country, 10 women are murdered per day. It's a horrifying statistic that somehow doesn't real to our population. We are tired, and we are done. We have destroyed monuments, marched on the streets, created songs and dances, dyed the water in fountains across the city red. So far, 10 women are still killed every day. So we came up with an idea: On March 9, 2020 there won't be a single woman on the streets. Not at work, not at school. Because today? All of us are dead, and the men that killed us will have to live in a country without us for one day.
> 
> So I wrote this. I killed four of the most important women of the IronDad fandom. I killed them on March 9, 2020. This is my protest.
> 
> Before you continue, heed the tags. This work contains a semi-graphic description of the dead bodies of four women, one of which is a child, as well as implied rape. If you are not comfortable reading any of these, please click on the back button.

March 9, 2020.

Michelle Jones woke up inside a trash bag. 

Her hands and feet were tied up, and there was tape covering her mouth. Her clothes were gone, her hair had been let out of its ponytail. She hurt all over: her back, her head, her arms. Between her legs.

Michelle Jones woke up inside a trash bag, and she was dead.

She had been going to school. Catched the subway and got off early, just with enough time to head for the library and study for her test --Chemistry had never been her strongest subject. If she was lucky, she could catch Peter or Ned before class and ask them to explain some stuff she still didn’t get.

Her headphones had been blasting music into her ears, and she hadn’t noticed the man following her from the station.

No, that was a lie. She _had_ noticed him following her, but there were a lot of businesses near Midtown, so she had figured that his expensive suit just meant that he was going to work.

And then, the man grabbed her wrist from behind and pulled her into an alley. In broad daylight. Michelle kicked and screamed as much as she could with his hand covering her mouth.

The man was not trying to take her schoolbag and run. He didn’t ask for money, or for her phone. She kicked him harder.

Not far away from them, a policeman chatted with the customer of an ice cream shop. He looked at Michelle, and at the man holding her.

“Sir, is everything alright here?”

_No!_ she wanted to yell, _I don’t know him! I’m scared!_

“Ah, everything’s fine officer. My daughter can’t seem to want to go to school today, that’s all.”

His hand tightened around her mouth, and she couldn’t breathe. Her shouts muffled and unintelligible.

_Help me! I don’t know this man! I’m scared! You’re the police, HELP ME!_

The officer nodded at the man, and then left.

Michelle started to cry.

The man went for the buttons of her jeans.

It was 6:25 in the morning. The people of New York walked down the street.

Michelle Jones woke up in a trash bag.

She had been going to school.

* * *

March 9, 2020.

Pepper Potts woke up floating on a river.

She was cold all over. Her limbs were swollen and blue; her lungs were full of water; her hair was a mess. Her clothes were gone. Everything hurt, her legs the most. There were handprints everywhere.

Pepper Potts woke up floating on a river, and she was dead. 

She had been going home. Got into her car and made her way to the lake house after a week of conferences in the Philipines. She had just pulled out of the airport’s parking lot. 

**Pepper:** I’ll be home soon, Tony. Just got out of the airport. Love you <3.

**Tony:** Love you too <3 Take care.

Looking up from her phone, there was a gun pointed at her head. Pepper’s heart raced, but she stilled herself and opened her door. The man hadn’t thought to cover his face, he was wearing a white button-up. There was a police badge hanging from his belt.

He led her to a van, another man opened the door. There were three more inside. 

They gagged her with a ripped shirt that reeked of alcohol. Her hands were tied behind her back with rope. No one tied her legs, but they made sure to hold her ankles firmly while they took turns. 

She tried to yell, so they took out the gag. Told her to make all the sound she wanted.

One of them had her phone and took a video until it ran out of space. They used her fingerprint to open the messaging app, and sent it to Tony, sent it to Happy, sent it to Rhodey, sent it to Peter; posted it on Facebook.

Her phone vibrated with message after message. Call after call. 

Pepper cried.

_Please stop. Please stop it hurts! Stop! PLEASE STOP!_

They took turns.

It was 7:34 in the afternoon. Her husband was waiting for her with dinner on the table.

Pepper Potts woke up floating on a river.

She had been going home.

* * *

March 9, 2020.

May Parker woke up on a grill. 

Her skin was on fire, her clothes were gone; half of her hair had been burned off. There were stripes of black covering her skin, like she was in a cell and her body was a mass of bars that wouldn’t let her out. Her flesh smelled like cooked pork. She wasn’t even tied up anymore.

May Parker woke up on a grill, and she was dead.

She had been going to work. Had grabbed her keys, left a twenty for Peter on the counter to get dinner after he came back from school; kissed her boyfriend goodbye. May and Peter had moved in with Stan after they had dated for almost two years; he lived in a nice house, and it was closer to Midtown that their apartment had been. 

There was a nice backyard were Stan did barbeques at least twice a month.

Her boyfriend grabbed her by the arm, and her keys fell to the ground.

“I told you that you had to quit your job, May. You have to stay here and help around the house, that was the deal.”

He didn’t let go of her arm, and she yelled. It hurt.

Stan held her close, lifting her from the ground and into the backyard. 

His hands covered her mouth.

_Let go of me! You’re hurting me! LET GO!_

“You have to learn your place, May. I’m doing you a favor.”

He let go of her mouth to get a rope. May spit on his face. Scrambled to get away from him.

He slapped her in return.

May started to cry.

He grabbed her by the hair, and pulled so hard she felt a few strands leave her head.

_Let go, please let go._

He grabbed the seams of her dress and pulled up.

It was 11: 29. Peter would be having lunch right now. She had given him a Spider-Man lunchbox as a joke.

The grill had been lit for the better part of the morning, Stan had wanted to have lunch outside. She had wanted to go to work.

He backed her up against the grill, made her lie down against the hot surface.

May yelled. Her skin turned a horrid shade of bubbling red, then black. Her glasses fell to the ground. It smelled like cooking pork. Stan took off his pants.

He pushed her against the hot metal until she passed out.

May Parker woke up on a grill.

She had been going to work.

* * *

March 9, 2020.

Morgan Stark woke up under a bridge. 

The dry grass tickled her exposed tummy and her bare legs. Her schoolbag was missing, her uniform too. There was a drawing she had made in art class for her daddy. It had been on her bag. It was cold, and she didn’t have her uniform.

Morgan Stark woke up under a bridge, and she was dead.

She had been at school. Her hand had shot up in the middle of class, and she asked to go to the bathroom. Her teacher had let her go, so she took some paper that was hanging on the door and went to the bathroom.

She had been washing her hands, but the sink had been too high for her to reach. Morgan felt someone lifting her. She looked back and saw her teacher.

“Um, Mr. Johnson? This is the girls bathroom, you’re not supposed to be here.”

_Please let me down._

“It’s okay, Morgan. Wash your hands and then I’ll show you something fun.”

_Let me down._

“But I have to get back to class?”

Her teacher laughed at her. She washed her hands. He didn’t let her down.

“Mr. Johnson, you can let me down now.”

_Please._

He started to tickle her. His hands moved from her neck down, until they were at her thighs.

_I want my daddy._

She went to scream. Morgan didn’t like this. Her teacher held his hand to her mouth. It was so big it covered her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to kick him where her daddy told her to, but her legs were too short.

_I want my daddy_.

Her teacher took her to the parking lot and into a car. The backseat was full of worksheets and colored drawings and colored pencils. His hand never moved from her mouth.

_Please, I just want my daddy. I want my mommy. I want my big brother._

Her teacher lifted her uniform skirt.

It was 9:17 in the morning. Her classmates were waiting for their teacher to come back.

Morgan Stark woke up under a bridge.

She had been at school.

* * *

But if the policeman didn’t do anything, surely she wasn’t fighting the man. I bet she liked it.

* * *

She was wearing a skirt, right? It’s only natural that they got her out of the car, she was provoking them.

* * *

Her boyfriend, you say? She should’ve known better than to date someone like that. I bet she wanted it to happen.

* * *

A child? Well, where was her mom to protect her? It’s her fault for not being there for the kid.

* * *

March 10, 2020.

Michelle Jones woke up in her bedroom. 

Her alarm had just rung and if she didn’t hurry up, she’d be late to class. Maybe if she ate breakfast on her way to school, she’d make it.

Michelle Jones woke up in her bedroom, and she was alive.

* * *

March 10, 2020.

Pepper Potts woke up on her bed.

Her husband was snoring beside her. Her phone screen lit up with e-mails from the board meeting that she had to go to in the afternoon. She could hear Gerald eating grass outside of the house.

Pepper Potts woke up on her bed, and she was alive.

* * *

March 10, 2020.

May Parker woke up on her couch.

The smell of coffee and waffles cooking in the kitchen made her stomach rumble. Peter must have heard (stupid super-hearing) because he laughed all the way from his place in front of the stove. Not a minute later, he handed her a cup of coffee and went to check on the waffles.

May Parker woke up on her couch, and she was alive.

* * *

March 10, 2020

Morgan Stark woke up sandwiched between her parents. 

Her mommy kissed her forehead. Her daddy tickled her tummy and then got up to get started on breakfast. She made grabby hands at him and got herself a place on his shoulders. She got to make the orange juice.

Morgan Stark woke up sandwiched between her parents, and she was alive.

* * *

March 9, 2020.

There was not a single woman walking on the streets. 

They were tied up inside trash bags; floating in rivers; burned to death; under bridges; inside the trunk of a car; shot on their bed.

There was not a single woman walking on the streets, because they were all dead.

* * *

March 10, 2020

Women woke up in their homes.

They woke up safe, nestled under fuzzy blankets; on their couches; on their beds; next to the person they loved the most; to the smell of breakfast cooking.

Women woke up in their homes, and they were alive.

But there were women missing. And until they could _all_ wake up safe, they weren’t free.

**Author's Note:**

> The way I wrote their bodies, and the comments of other people, are real-life situations that have happened in my country. Other countries called us brave, on their news report about our pacific strike today; men and women of my own country called us lazy, idiots, and many more things. My father this morning asked me to go out to the store, I said no, because I was in a strike. He told me "Strike against what?"
> 
> This is me telling all of you that we are being murdered. That I have to go in the train every day, and stand still as a man grabs my butt and whispers in my ear that I should like it. Our culture is one of toxic masculinity, and the worst part is that our country is not the worst when it comes to stadistics.
> 
> Tomorrow, I may never write again, because I'm a woman, and apparently that's enough reason to use my body and then dump in in a trash bag.
> 
> This is me protesting, because today, March 9, I am dead. Tomorrow I may not be anymore, but it is an entirely possible scenario.


End file.
